


Feather Duster (30 Days of Prompts)

by JoifulDreaming



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoifulDreaming/pseuds/JoifulDreaming
Summary: Your home is my home because my home doesn't have you.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Feather Duster (30 Days of Prompts)

**Author's Note:**

> For my NaNoWrimo project: 30 days of short story prompts. 
> 
> Author's note: the first ~800 words are in Crowley's perspective while the rest is not. This was not a stylistic choice. I literally wrote that much of the wrong perspective before I realized my mistake. But, as this is nano, I've decided to leave it as is. *narrowly avoids the editing abyss*

They spent most days following the failed apocalypse at the bookshop. Aziraphale was always happy to be amongst his books and Crowley was just happy to be where the angel was. There were countless hours spent there before the world didn't end and, when the bookshop was miraculously restored in the aftermath, they saw no reason not to enjoy it. So, dinners out. Theater, sometimes. Museums by day (to critisize the assumptions on the plaques- it was hard sometimes watching humans piece together history when they had been there, but mostly it was funny). When the sun dipped low and places of interest and amusement closed, they found their way back to the bookshop for a drink or seven and a good laugh.

Most of the time, Crowley didn't even go home. His eyes would droop and he would eventually stop laughing. He would wake in the morning to find a tattered throw blanket draped over him and an angel that didn't even mention it.

It wasn't that he hated his own flat, really. It was nice enough: modern, with amenities. Minimalist. He did visit it to water and threaten his plants. It was just that... it was cold. He hadn't furnished it to be a home, not really. It was a base. He put some of himself in it, sure, but not a lot. The other demons were constantly dropping into his life and the idea of having himself laid bare for them to see was not appealing.

The bookshop, on the other hand, was like being surrounded by Aziraphale. The books- “in a very particular order, Crowley, honestly!”- and the trinkets collected- “there's nothing wrong with keeping material objects that remind you of things!” all around. Everything was imbued with meaning and memory and knowledge. It was an extension of himself. For Crowley, there was nothing more comforting than being with Aziraphale, surrounded by all the things Aziraphale loved. It made him feel like part of the collection, something treasured and sat on a shelf all his own. He felt worn and used and a bit dusty, but here he was wanted, treasured even, for those things.

“Why don't we go to your flat today?” Aziraphale didn't even look up at him, peering through the tiny spectacles on his nose at the book in his lap.

“What for?” Crowley tried to keep his voice flat, but incredulity crept in anyway.

“Well, we've spent plenty of time here and I've enjoyed that immensely... But, it doesn't have to be all about my comfort. We can spend time in your home, too. Surely, there are things you have been neglecting there to be here with me,” he glanced up and met Crowley's eyes and then back down at the book, “unless there's some reason you don't want me there. I wouldn't want to intrude on your space.”

“Neh, no. There's not- Angel, you're always welcome in my spaces,” the sentence, if it could be called that, came out wrong. He could make sentences, really he could. Just. Maybe not always with his angel. His. Hmm. And, that was part of the problem, wasn't it? It was all good and well to dwell in Aziraphale's world. That's how they had always done things. Crowley visited Aziraphale's life. Popped in and out. He was a fixture there. But, Aziraphale rarely visited his world. That had once been a purposeful choice on his part, to keep the angel safe. There was no real reason for that, now, was there? It made Crowley wonder if he'd had other reasons all along, buried under all that protective instinct. Though really, he admitted to himself, he didn't need to wonder. His home might not be quite the extension of himself that Aziraphale's was, but it was still his home and it would speak about him, he was sure, in ways he wasn't even aware.

“That settles it, then,” Aziraphale smiled down at the book, eyes still scanning as he spoke, “we'll head over after lunch. A little bistro opened up just down the street from there and I've been positively dying to try their soup- I've heard such good things!” He turned the page, absolutely unaware of all the turmoil going on over on the couch across from him.

“Okay, Angel,” because when had he ever had an ounce of will to deny him anything he asked for, “after lunch then.” Crowley sunk down into the sofa cushions and wondered when he'd last even considered cleaning his flat.

-

Normally, Crowley would be watching him enjoy his soup. It seemed a strange thing to miss, but here he was missing it. Crowley was preoccupied with staring at the table between them, somewhere between the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin holder. Aziraphale had tried to draw him out a few times, mentioning how good the soup was. What was in it that made it so good. The yelp reviews that he had read. The one he was planning to write tonight. Usually Crowley hung on his words, but he wasn't right now. It seemed a selfish thing to want, but it was their normal.

“Ready to go to mine, then?” Still, Crowley smiled at him as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin. Maybe he was just having a quiet kind of day.

“Yes, of course!”

\- 

The trip from the bistro to Crowley's flat wasn't long- less than five minutes- but the quiet was a bit strained. Aziraphale sat with his satchel (full of a few choice books to pass the time) clutched in his lap and wondered, for the first time, if Crowley really didn't want him in his home. But, surely he would have said when Aziraphale asked, right? Maybe not.

The elevator up was just as quiet and he followed Crowley down the hall from there, watched the demon wave the locks open and then went in when he was ushered with a hand on the small of his back.

“Er, make yourself at home, Angel,” Crowley shifted from foot to foot for a moment, “tea? Something stronger than tea?”

“Yes, perhaps a bit stronger,” Aziraphale put his satchel down beside Crowley's sofa and sat, deciding immediately that it was chosen for it's looks and not for comfort. In for a penny, he thought, he would make do. He was becoming stubbornly fixated on making Crowley feel accepted in his own space.

The demon returned with two tumblers of whiskey and handed one to him, taking a gulp from his and wincing as it went down.

“Should I come sit with you here, then?” Crowley didn't look very enamored with the idea. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, because he was absolutely aware of how uncomfortable this sofa was. He wiggled down into the unforgiving cushions and smiled. 

“You can if you like, but I can entertain myself. I'm sure there are things you need to tend to, yes? You're not here much. You sit on my furniture while I organize my books. Just... do whatever you would do if I wasn't here.

Crowley stared at him for a moment and then nodded slowly and shrugged, downing what was left in his glass and then turning and walking out of the room. Aziraphale listened and heard the sound of spray bottle in the other room. Then some disgruntled grumbling about leaf spots. There, see? They could cohabitate in Crowley's space. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a book. Turning to the page with a ribbon holding his place, he slipped on his spectacles and started reading.

-

He heard Crowley putter around the atrium for a while, and then further away in the kitchen. For a time, he heard nothing and wondered if the demon had crawled into bed for a nap. That would certainly be acting like no one was there. But then he head more puttering in the atrium and Crowley reappeared.

He had changed his clothes. That was something Aziraphale had not been expecting. A deep blue hoodie and a pair of worn, black sweats. And he'd removed his shoes and replaced them with fuzzy blue socks. They looked ridiculously soft. Aaaand, he realized he was staring. Dragging his eyes back to the book in his lap, he pretended to keep reading. No reason that Crowley should know this move had made him... what, exactly? Nervous? Excited, maybe? Confused, certainly. Curious, yes.

Crowley never let anyone see him- even Aziraphale- in less than impeccable clothing choices, the kind that somehow looked both expensive and also thrown together. This was Crowley being actually comfortable. How... how was seeing LESS of him somehow more fetching than when he wore the skin-tight trousers and shirts? 

He turned a page, thinking it would probably be good timing for that. Really, he hadn't read any of it. He glanced up just in time for Crowley to cross in front, back turned to him. His eyes were immeditatly drawn to the feather duster that was tucked into the top of his joggers. It... wiggled when he walked, making the feather sway with his hips.

“Alright there, Angel?” Crowley was plucking up the feather duster and flicking it along the painting on his wall.

Aziraphale just stared. He could feel his jaw hanging down, but there didn't seem to be a thing he could do about it. Crowley stopped when he felt the silence and walked back over to him, standing over the sofa.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“... fan worms.”

Crowley was staring at him blankly.

“They're, uh, well they're oceanic filter feeders. Nice big fans that spread out and catch little things floating around in the water. Very clever way to keep the oceans clean, I think...”

“Did you miracle your glass full while I was cleaning the other rooms?”

“What? No!”

“I mean it's one thing when I'm spouting off about kraken and dolphins, but what are you going on about filter feeders for?”

“I'm a bit nervous!”

Crowley stared some more then, “since when do you talk about- wait, what have you got to be nervous for?” He was standing with his hands on his hips, feathers still floating around the hand holding the duster.

“Well, right now it's that you're towering over me asking me lots of questions!”

Crowley looked struck for a moment and then he laughed. He sat down on the other end of the sofa, angling towards him, feather duster now laying across his right thigh. He ripped his eyes away from the feather duster and back up to Crowley's face.

“Is this better?”

“Is what better?”

“Are you absolutely sure you didn't fill the glass a few more times? It's okay if you did, I just need to catch up.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. Maybe this was all a terrible idea. He wasn't sure how he could have seen it going this way, but he should have. Somehow. He shook his head slowly.

“Do you just... not like it here?”

“What? Of course I like it here.”

“Aziraphale, here is nothing like the places you enjoy inhabiting.”

“It is, too!”

“Angel, it's uncomfortably warm in here for anyone who's not me. It's spotless and I'm making it moreso at the moment because I clean when I'm nervous- nono, this is about you!- it's spartan, to say the least and the only books in sight are the ones that you brought. What is it about this place that would make you want to be here? I hardly want to be here and it's my home.”

“Why wouldn't you want to be in your own home?” Aziraphale watched Crowley as the man looked away from him.

“I asked you first.”

“Well, I asked you second.”

“That doesn't count!” Crowley picked up the feather duster and shook it at him.

“I just...” Aziraphale sighed, “I'm not used to seeing you in this state of undress.” He could feel his cheeks heating up and he tried to surpress it. His capillaries would not listen.

“My...” Crowley's jaw worked for a moment, hanging open and then closed and then hanging open again, “I'm wearing more than I usually do when we're out, though.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale toyed with his own fingers nervously, “but you look so comfortable, dear. I'm not used to you looking comfortable, I think. Your fashion isn't built for it.”

“I could change.”

“I wish you wouldn't.” The words were out before he could stop them. He kind of wished he could grab them from the air and eat them. His face was flaming now and his ears had joined in the game.

“Hmm, you're not nervous because you dislike my clothing,” Crowley leaned toward him, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “does that mean you do like them?”

“Oh, stop.”

“You like me dressed down?”

“Crowley, really.”

“You're always so layered and buttoned up, I wouldn't have thought.”

“You look... snuggly.”

There was another stunned silence in which Aziraphale was sure his face found a whole new, heretofore unknown, shade of red to turn.

“You want to snuggle with me?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You're also not denying it.”

“... no, I suppose I'm not.”

“You could, you know.”

“Co-could do what?” The air was getting a little thin, he was sure of it. Definitely not enough air in this room.

“Snuggle up with me.”

“You,” Aziraphale chanced a glance at him, “you would like that?”

“From you? Yeah, I think so. You pretty much look snuggly all the time.”

“Well, that's... something.”

“Maybe not here, though.”

“Oh, you really don't like me being here, do you? Do be honest with me.”

“Already told you, Angel, I don't much like it here. I would rather be at your shop with you.”

“But it's not as warm.”

“You have blankets.”

“And it's dusty and cluttered and there's a television but it's decades old. I don't even have the internet.”

“I mean, I'm pretty much used to all those things... But the things aren't why I like it there better than here.”

Aziraphale stared at him. He could feel the shoe about to drop, he just wasn't sure what brand it was.

“You,” Crowley said, “I like it there because you're there. And it's your space. You're happiest in your space. I'm happy if you're happy.”

Aziraphale continued to stare, digesting that.

“Also, you're furniture is way more comfortable to use than mine.”

“This is a dreadful couch.”

“Hey! It looked good in the magazine.”

“Crowley, would you like to take me home? And stay... with me?”

“Will there be snuggling involved?”

"If you want."

“Yes, Angel,” Crowley's smile was lopsided and filled with warmth, “I think I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: fan worms are sometimes called feather dusters. As a fan of ocean life, I could not avoid the temptation to include them.
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr: [sushiandstarlight](https://sushiandstarlight.tumblr.com/)


End file.
